Duty
by BenquashaFraser
Summary: Post Reichenbach Falls. How do John and Sherlock cope? John has lost friends before; Sherlock has never had to deny himself before. What happens if they meet again? Spoilers for Eps 101 and 203. Will eventually be John/Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1

**Author Notes**

This is my first piece of fanfiction in years. It is also the first time I have written any Sherlock fiction. Constructive criticism very welcome.

Just a heads up before you read, this might take a while to complete, my life outside of fanfic writing is busy at the best of times and manic at the worst.

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><p>John strode out of the cemetery the one and only time he visited Sherlock's grave. He didn't look back; he just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. The ground crunched quietly underfoot and a cold breeze glided deceptively softly over his skin. He pulled his coat tighter around him and straightened his posture a little more in an attempt to drive out the cold that was seeping into him. It settled in his chest and he could feel the wall of ice begin to form around his heart. His lips pursed, as his expressive face gave away the thoughts crossing his mind before he let out a deep, cleansing breath and pulled back his shoulders. He nodded once to himself and his face cleared of all expression.<p>

Mrs Hudson was waiting for him at the gate. He greeted her with a small smile and put an arm around her slight shoulders. He knew now what he had to do. He couldn't allow his grief to overwhelm him; he couldn't forget his duty. John had seen good friends die before but that had been different. Then he'd had an enemy to blame; he'd had a way of fighting back, of getting retribution. Now he didn't have that coping mechanism to fall back on, nor did he have his colleagues around him to lean on and to support. That didn't mean he didn't have an army to look after, people who would now need his care. John was still a doctor, a very good doctor; it was time to put his skills to use again.

He had known from the very first case he had worked on with Sherlock that this could happen. He'd seen the way Sherlock had looked at that pill and known that one day he would be unable to stop the latest criminal mastermind from convincing Sherlock that risking his life to play a game was a good way to relieve the boredom of daily life. John had seen the signs in Sherlock of a man with a dangerous disregard for his own life. As both a doctor and Sherlock's friend he had tried to do everything in his power to prevent it but John hadn't been blind to his friend's increasingly erratic behaviour and the way he had, towards the end, been pushing John away. He had realised only upon seeing Mrs. Hudson standing unharmed in Baker Street that the time had arrived. John didn't understand why Sherlock had continued to play Moriarty's game after the criminal consultant had killed himself but he was sure that, if Sherlock was here, he would look at John with an incredulous expression and explain it to him with a tone that quite clearly said 'duh!'

When their taxi stopped at Baker Street, John got out to see sure Mrs. Hudson safely inside. He gave her a hug and promised that he would be back the next day and that he would deal with the rest of Sherlock's belongings. He took the taxi back to the travel lodge he was staying at, got out his laptop and opened his blog and Google. He did a quick search for a video of the news feed from the day after Sherlock jumped. His duty began here and he typed a single sentence and embedded the video below it before disabling comments and closing his blog for what he assumed would be the last time.

_He was my best friend and I will always believe in him._

John packed the few belongings he had with him into his bag and checked out of the travel lodge. He got the bus to Baker Street deciding it was time for a change of transport. As the bus wound its way through the streets of London, John realised that now he wasn't going to be chasing Sherlock around the city he would need a new way of maintaining his fitness. He vowed to buy a bicycle at the next opportunity. He would need to get a better paying job too. He didn't want a new flatmate, nor was he going to abandon Mrs. Hudson, so he needed to at least double his current income.

The nearest bus stop to 221B was a short walk away. John used the walk to strengthen his resolve and to wrap his sense of duty around himself like a suit of armour. He walked the last couple of metres with the confident stride of a man with a purpose in life.

It took John a month to get everything set up. He boxed up Sherlock's belongings. The stuff which could not be easily be replaced, should Sherlock miraculously return, was placed in Sherlock's room, this included his violin and the notes from all his various experiments. The perishable items and body parts were disposed of appropriately. John had wondered absentmindedly how many people, when clearing out a loved one's belongings after their death, had to consider the appropriate way to dispose of boiled eyeballs and frozen human heads. Not many he would have wagered. The science equipment was donated to a local comprehensive school and the rest, including Sherlock's bed was donated to the Shelter charity shop in Camden.

John filled the living room of 221B with extra chairs, turning it into a waiting room, the sofa he replaced with a sofa bed. Sherlock's room, he turned into an examination room, much like the ones found in GPs' surgeries all over the country, except for the boxes piled high against one wall and the skull sitting on the desk.

Six months after Sherlock jumped, John was starting to make a name for himself at Bart's as a good doctor and a great teacher. His friend Mike Stamford had helped him get the job. He kept in shape running the 3 miles to work each day or cycling a longer route. In the evenings he would walk through the streets of London, the trenches that Sherlock had shown him, and tend to her forgotten wounded. Before Sherlock John had been so lost but Sherlock had shown him the battlefields of London and John was an army doctor; he couldn't turn his back on wounded soldiers, especially when they had fought under Sherlock's command. He had been slightly surprised to learn how many had also fought on other battlefields in hotter sandier places.

A year after that all of London's homeless knew that if there was a blue scarf in the window of 221B Baker Street then the doctor was in and anyone who needed him would be seen. No-one would be turned away or turned in to social services or the police. Runaways, immigrants, desperate parents, addicts and ex infantry men made up the majority of his patients. At least once a week a green scarf hung in the window instead. At these moments teenagers, children and some adults too could be found learning new skills at 221B. Some were learning how to make traps to catch rodents and how to cook on an open fire, others were learning first aid. Some were learning to read or getting help from the doc to get qualifications that would help them out of the streets and into work.

Only three groups of people were not welcomed at 221B Baker Street and no-one from any of these groups tried to come within a 100 metre radius of the address any more. No government agents came near John after he sent Mycroft Holmes packing with a broken nose, four cracked ribs and a black eye and Mycroft did nothing in retribution. No journalist approached him after he had invited the group that had been gathered outside his home in for tea and they woke up in underground stations across London, stripped to their underwear and with the word 'murderer' written in permanent marker on their foreheads. There had been numerous witnesses who testified to the fact that they had seen the journalists leave Baker Street under their own steam hours before they woke up and no drugs were found in any of their systems.

After the incident with the journalists, the police had started pressing John for information. They had thought to bully John into co-operating with them in the same way they had Sherlock; they had forgotten that John had been an officer in the British Army and had a wider breadth of experience and expertise in dealing with bullies than Sherlock. Three unsuccessful 'drugs raids' in three weeks gave John all the ammunition he needed to file a harassment claim against the police. Many heads rolled when his claim was successful.

For 18 more months John's life continued in this manner. By day he taught the masses of young adults fortunate enough to have gained a place at St Bartholomew's to read medicine; by night he lent his hand to the forgotten army of London, Sherlock's army.

Mrs Hudson frequently visited, bringing with her cups of tea and plates of cake. Together they would sit for hours and talk, often of Sherlock and their favourite memories of time spent with him. It was on one such night that a frantic knock at the door came.

"Doc! Come quickly! Doc!" called the voice of Tom, a young runaway who was frequently found studying at Baker street and helping John with his clinic.

John threw the door open and gestured for Tom to lead the way. His bag flung over one shoulder, he raced behind the gangly youth as he ran down Baker Street. He hadn't needed to ask what was wrong; it was clear from the tone of the boy's voice that someone needed his help. Tom turned into an alley, John following closely behind. Slumped against one of the walls was a tall, thin man. John ran up to him and felt for a pulse. He breathed a small sigh of relief when he found one but his brow furrowed in concern at how weak and thread it felt.

"Tom he needs a hospital."

"I know. Won't go though; nutted Baz when we tried to take him. Crawled 'ere, he did before he passed out." There was a tinge of respect and awe in Tom's voice.

"Who is he?"

"Dunno, he's new. Showed up a couple of days ago like. Think he's been on the streets somewhere else before though coz he don't act like a newbie. Got a hell of a habit too." John nodded at the information, no judgement only acceptance of the facts.

"Ok. Help me get him back to the house."

Between them they were easily able to carry the man. No-one blinked an eye at them; the people of Baker Street were used to the sight of someone being helped to the doc's house. This man wasn't in as bad a state as some of the people they'd seen carried through that door either. He wasn't leaving a trail of blood in his wake, nor was he fitting and frothing at the mouth.

When they got to the house, the found Mrs Hudson had turned the sofa into a bed, there were fresh sheets on it and a pile of blankets at the end. On the table sat a bowl of warm water, some cloths, a bottle of TCP and a set of clean clothes (tracksuit bottoms, a t shirt and a jumper). On the table next to John's chair sat a cup of tea, a can of coke and two slices of cake. Mrs Hudson though was nowhere to be seen.


	2. Chapter 2

Ok. Shorter chapter here, sorry it took so long but I did warn you that would be the case. Hope to get more up soon.

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><p>Between them Tom and John made quick work of stripping their frail patient, cleaning him and redressing him. His skin was pulled tight against bones and organs, his arms were covered in needle marks. Some looked to be almost 10 years old, while the rest were no more than a year old. It made John sad to think that this man could have been clean for so long before devolving this quickly. He wondered what had happened to the man's support system to allow this to happen.<p>

When the man was clean and dressed, and his visible wounds had been cleaned with TCP, John voiced his concern to Tom that they may have to cut the man's matted hair in order to treat the lice infestation. Tom shook his head, the man's hair was shoulder length and very curly, like Tom's but unlike Tom's it was also thinning and grey: it had obviously not been cared for, for some time.

While Tom set about cleaning the man's hair, John began to take the man's vitals. He recorded the man's pulse, blood pressure, oxygen saturation levels and temperature. He also ran a feeding tube down the man's nose, to his intestine, opting to avoid putting food directly into the stomach to reduce the risk of nausea. He also inserted a cannula into the man's hand, which he connected to a bag of IV fluids. Getting fluid and nutrients into his patient was a high priority.

By this time Tom had finished cleaning the man's hair and applying the lice treatment and John was momentarily taken aback. The grey colour was gone and instead there were dark wavy curls. He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering a time when he had felt so alive running through the streets of London behind a long and flowing coat that had been topped by wild, bouncing curls just like the ones their patient had. He took a deep breath, opened his eyes and sent Tom to make up a set of the modular feed that they used to treat the malnourished babies that were often brought in by their equally malnourished mothers. When Tome came back through, John hooked up the feed to the tube in their patient's nose and set the flow rate on the small pump.

John and Tom sat down to drink their drinks and eat their cake. They didn't talk; there was nothing needed said. Tom knew that if he wanted to stay he could; John knew that Tom wouldn't stay because he felt responsible for checking up on the younger runaways each night. When Tom left, they wished each other a good night and John rechecked his patient's vitals and recorded them next to the results from the first check.

He settled himself in his armchair, his phone alarm set to go off every hour so he could get a good idea of how his patient was doing. He dozed a little between alarms, dreaming as always of gunfire, of running and of heroes falling. After waking up from a particularly vivid dream of the last time he saw Sherlock, John glanced at his phone and saw that he had 20 minutes before he needed to run his checks again. He got up to make himself a cup of tea.

When he came back through, he noticed that his patient had started talking in his sleep. John put his cup on the table and leaned closer. The man's voice was little more than a raspy whisper.

"No... Kill all... Moriarty..."

John stifled a gasp at that name.

"Stay away... John safe... Stay away... Kill all... For John..."

John jumped when his phone alarm sounded and fumbled with it for a second, trying to turn it off. He did his checks on automatic before sitting back to really look at his patient. His long, lanky frame, his wild dark brown curls, the shape of his lips and his high angular cheekbones. John leaned forward and lifted and eyelid to see if the man's eyes were pale blue – they were. He picked up his phone and dialled a number he never thought he'd dial again.

"Really John," answered the voice on the other end, "I never thought you'd be drunk calling me at 3am."

"I'm not drunk, Mycroft."

"Oh."

"Are you?"

"Of course I am. Don't tell me you've forgotten what today is."

"Hmmm... Well that answers my question."

"Question?"

"I was going to ask if you knew. Obviously you don't."

"What don't I know? I know everything!"

"Come to Baker Street. There's something you need to see."

"Are you going to break my nose again?"

"No," John sighed, "I promise I won't touch you."

John hung up the phone and allowed himself a second to think how bizarre it was to hear Mycroft drunk. He sat down on the sofa next to his patient and ran his hand gently through the man's hair. It was hard to be angry with someone who was so badly broken.

"Sherlock," John whispered, barely more than a sigh, "What happened?"


	3. And now our story begins

Another Chapter and really where our story begins.

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><p>Mycroft's entrance was difficult to miss. He flung the door open in typical Holmes fashion. After glancing at the man on the bed, he gasped and promptly passed out. John smirked and considered taking a picture but decided to give the older Holmes sibling a break. He could see Mycroft was breathing from where he sat so opted to completely ignore his entrance.<p>

A moment or two later, Mycroft stirred, stood up, brushed himself off and picked up his umbrella. He cleared his throat and John turned to look at him. His hair was dishevelled, which John found disturbing on so many levels. His clothes were, as usual, immaculate but his eyes were bloodshot and his face was puffy. John felt his own face softening at the sight.

"You really had no idea?" John asked quietly, his hand moving from Sherlock's hair to rest on his chest, where he could feel the comforting heartbeat under his palm.

In the silence that followed John couldn't help but remember the last time he saw Mycroft and catalogue the differences in his appearance.

It had been a week or so after John began his job at St Bart's. He had come home from work to find Mycroft sitting in Sherlock's chair; no-one sat in that chair – it was the unspoken rule of 221B Baker Street. Mycroft had been sitting, back straight despite the fact that he was leaning back enough for his shoulders to rest on the back of the chair; his arms were resting on the armrest, left leg crossed over his right and he had been twirling his umbrella in his right hand, the end of it resting on the floor. There had been a smug little look etched onto Mycroft's face, looking back now John could recognise it for the defensive mask that it was, but at the time it had only served to anger him further.

"John," Mycroft had drawled in that slimy upper class tone that he had used from time to time. The one which gave John the feeling that he was being snubbed; that Mycroft felt he was the superior being in the room. It had made the rage boil inside him.

"What the fuck are you doing here Mycroft?" He had glared angrily, forcing the words out from behind clenched teeth. His fists clenched at his sides so hard that they were shaking.

"I wanted to see how you're doing." Mycroft continued in the same smarmy tone. "I worry."

"You worry," John had growled before grabbing Mycroft by the lapels and dragging him out of his seat. "Shame you didn't worry enough to remember careless talk kills," John's voice had increased in volume as he had slammed Mycroft into the wall. "It's your fault he's dead! You couldn't keep your fucking mouth shut!" John had slammed his left fist into Mycroft's nose so hard the older man had seen stars. He had then thrown Mycroft out of the door, chucking his umbrella at him, with the warning, "if you ever come back here, I'll break your nose again before I stick a bullet in you."

Mycroft had staggered into the waiting black car without a reply. John had expected retribution; none had come.

The Mycroft standing near him was so different to the one he had seen all that time ago. He had put on at least 2 stone, his shoulders were slumped, his face looked more haggard and the smug superior expression which had been constantly upon his face was no more. He looked at least 10 years older than John knew him to be and for the first time since Sherlock... since that day, John felt bad about how he had treated his best friend's brother.

"He's using again," Mycroft whispered as he stepped closer to John and Sherlock. "Not cocaine this time." He ran his fingers down his brother's arm, looking at the needle marks. "Heroin and Phenazepam," he concluded, "not something he would normally have chosen."

"Why?" John asked as he looked at Mycroft horror and shock written all over his face.

"He preferred stimulants: he thought they made his mind work faster." Mycroft turned to John, suddenly looking like the thousands of other relatives he'd seen in his time as a doctor: looking to a doctor for answers, for reassurance.

"His vitals aren't critical and they're getting better. I don't think this was overdose; I think he just hasn't been looking after himself at all and his body ran out of the energy needed to keep him conscious." Mycroft nodded and John was surprised how clearly the relief was written on his face. "If you want to stay, there's a spare bed in the cupboard, I can pull it out for you.

"May I just..." Mycroft paused and glanced at the chair he had sat in last time he was in the flat. John nodded and Mycroft collapsed into the chair, not once did he take his eyes off his younger brother.

They stayed like that for a while, Mycroft in Sherlock's chair, just watching his brother and John sitting on the sofa, his hand resting over his friend's heart. When John's alarm sounded for John to check Sherlock's vitals again, Mycroft was asleep in the armchair. The effects of the alcohol combined with the emotional stress and lack of sleep to knock him out cold. The thought struck John that he was one of a very small number of people who could say that he had had the opportunity to see both Holmes brothers showing their humanity and at the same time. Then he looked at the tubes going into Sherlock and the pain etched on Mycroft's face and wished the opportunity had never arisen.

When the Holmes brothers awake, they did so at almost the same moment, though Sherlock was the first. John heard the sharp inhalation of breath and looked up to see Sherlock lying wide eyed staring at the ceiling and trembling. John then glanced at Mycroft and saw he was sitting bolt upright in his chair, holding his breath. If John didn't know Mycroft better he would say that he looked almost afraid to move.

John moved back to Sherlock's side, Sherlock wasn't trying to remove the tubes so John opted to leave them in. He took Sherlock's vitals once more. Sherlock just watched John silently, moving nothing but his eyes. When John was done, he sat next to Sherlock and wiped away the tears that were running down Sherlock's cheeks.

"Hey," John spoke softly, "what's wrong?"

"I..." Sherlock sniffed, "I failed. He got you." Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself and tears continued to stream down his face. John frowned in confusion.

"Who got me?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock choked out. "He killed you."

"Hmm... Sherlock, I um... I'm not dead." Sherlock moved his head on the pillow but John couldn't tell if it was a nod or a shake.

"You must be; you're here," Sherlock whispered.

"Uh... what?"

"I'm here; I'm home. Conclusion: I'm dead and this is heaven. You're here too," Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and tried to stop himself from sobbing enough to get the words out, "so you must be dead too."

"Oh, Sherlock," John whispered, unsure of what to say, "you... you're not..." John coughed, trying to clear the lump in his throat, "You're not dead."

"I am. It's the only explanation of all the facts."

"The only explanation of all the facts," John couldn't help but repeat dumbfounded, "What facts are they Sherlock?"

"I'm home," Sherlock whispered, "You're here and I can feel it when you touch me – so not a hallucination then. I didn't believe in heaven but when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." With that declaration, Sherlock closed his eyes and moved his hand to grasp John's, which was once again resting over Sherlock's heart. John turned to Mycroft, looking for help.

"Really Sherlock," Mycroft spoke softly, but once again in that tone of voice that had so irritated John in the past, "the only explanation of _all_ the facts?" Sherlock's eyes flew open and he turned his head to look at Mycroft. His hand, rather than letting go of John's, tightened its grip.

"Myc," he whispered, his voice filled with pain, "not you too." John could feel the tremors in Sherlock's body intensify.

"No Sherlock, I'm not dead." Mycroft continued, seeing in his brother the little boy who had vanished that fateful month decades ago. The sight made his chest constrict and he closed his eyes briefly to drive back the emotions that were surfacing at the memory.


	4. The creation of Sherlock and Mycroft

A little of Mycroft and Sherlock's childhood.

**Warning:** References to child abuse

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><p>Sherlock had been a happy, loving child. He had cared deeply for his family and had made friends with ease. Mycroft imagined he had been much the same himself as a young child too, before his father had started making secret visits to his bedroom at night. He had been relieved when his father had died before Sherlock had reached the age Mycroft had been when the visits had started. It meant not only would he be safe from the unwanted visits but that when he left for boarding school the following year, Sherlock would also be safe.<p>

During the summer between Mycroft's first and second years at boarding school, when he was 12 and Sherlock was 5, their mother fell in love with a man called Jack Woodfine. Jack got on exceptionally well with Sherlock, treating him as if he was his own son. Mycroft felt wary around him, didn't like seeing him spend so much time with his little brother, but he put that down to his own less than ideal relationship with their father and said nothing. He hid his feelings from Jack and treated him as he was expected to.

When he left for school at the end of the summer, Sherlock bade him goodbye in his customary fashion – with a big hug and a sloppy kiss. Mycroft had laughed and hugged his little brother back. "Remember I love you Sherlock," he had whispered in the boy's ear, "and I'll be back again as soon as I can." Sherlock had looked at him with the love he felt for his big brother shining in his eyes and grinned.

Just 7 weeks later Mycroft had returned home for half term. He had been surprised to find that Sherlock wasn't waiting for him on the drive, like he normally would. When he got to the house he discovered that in his short absence Jack had moved into their home and was engaged to mummy. Mycroft dumped his bag in his room before running to find his brother. He eventually found him in the last place he had expected to... under the bed in Mycroft's room.

When Mycroft saw the look in his brother's eyes his blood ran cold. He recognised that look; he had seen it in the mirror every morning for the last 3 years of his father's life. He eventually managed to coax Sherlock out from under his bed and wrapped his little brother in a hug. Sherlock had turned his head to hide his face against his brother but there were no tears.

"Who was it Sherlock?" Mycroft had asked softly.

"Jack," came the whispered response. Mycroft allowed none of his emotions to show themselves, instead he pulled his brother in closer and allowed the rage to build inside and settle around his heart.

Mycroft only had one week at home before he had to go back to school. In that week he had confronted Jack, who had pinned him against a wall until he blacked out and kicked him between the legs to wake him up. He had begged his mother to save Sherlock from Jack and had had a tumbler of brandy chucked at his head, he had managed to dodge the tumbler but not the empty bottle that followed it.

The rest of that week Mycroft spent teaching Sherlock every technique he knew to separate the mind from the body. Sherlock was a quick study and was very quickly able to retreat into his own mind, blissfully unaware of all that was happening around him or to him. It broke Mycroft's heart to see the change in his little brother but he knew it was better than the alternative. Sherlock didn't hug Mycroft goodbye when he had to leave for school again at the end of the week; he was too busy exploring his new mind palace. Mycroft had permitted himself to allow a single tear to escape on the car journey to school before hardening his heart once more.

It was 3 years before Mycroft was able to stop Jack; it was 3 years before he was big enough and a capable enough fighter to put Jack in fear for his life should he ever touch Sherlock again. Mycroft regretted deeply that it had taken him so long to be able to save his little brother and that, by the time he had, the changes in Sherlock were irreversible.

Now, looking at Sherlock lying on the sofa with such unguarded emotion in his eyes, Mycroft had to force the next question out. "If this was really heaven, do you think I would be here?"

"Yes."

"Why? You hate me."

"No. I was angry but I know now." Mycroft felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he couldn't help glancing at John to see if he would realise what Sherlock was talking about. John just looked confused.

"You know?" Mycroft whispered.

"I know what father did and I know it was you who saved me from Jack."

"Not quick enough," Mycroft said sadly, choosing to ignore the first half of Sherlock's sentence.

"You were a child but you saved me as soon as you were able. I know that you tried as soon as you found out. I know what they did. I'm sorry for not finding out before we died." Mycroft shook his head.

"We're not dead Sherlock."

"Prove it."

"I think," John interrupted, "that the withdrawal will soon do that for us. It's... um... going to be bad. Sorry."

John decided he would get Sherlock through the withdrawal and back off the drugs before he pressed him for answers on why he had left. The hurt was still there, lurking in the background but for now it was drowned out by the duty of a doctor and the concern of a friend.


End file.
